


Open Heart Surgery

by Bronnwyn



Series: Kastle One-Shots [4]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 01:02:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6401575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bronnwyn/pseuds/Bronnwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karen's neighbor had four husbands. The third was a soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Heart Surgery

**Author's Note:**

> It's up to you whether or not this is a continuation of the others. Enjoy.

It had been exactly six weeks and four days since that night in the forest.

_You do this and you’re dead to me._

His answer was a gunshot.

And thus, the wake for Frank Castle had begun. She mourned the loss of him in her own quiet way, still working on that story she promised not to run, still digging, still searching. For whatever reason, Frank’s betrayal had motivated her all the more. She’d always been stubborn. To a fault, maybe. But this time, she _couldn’t_ give up.

She had to show him that he was wrong. She wanted to write that damn article and she wanted to shove it in his damn face and she wanted to show him, _convince him_ that he was wrong. Maybe not about the cops, maybe not about his methods, but about himself.

He was wrong. And she was _right._ That’s just how things had to be. She didn’t care if he disagreed.

She even managed to convince herself that this was simply about winning. Yeah, the winning was all that mattered here. Not Frank. If he wanted to continue to brush off her attempts at helping him, fine, but she wasn’t going to let him win this time. Checkmate, Castle, you’ve lost this round.

Raking her hand through her hair—it really needed a trim—she headed back up to her apartment, then locked the door. She smelled like bad coffee and stale perfume. Her feet ached, but that was normal. She was exhausted, but that was normal too.

In fact, one could say that Karen Page had mastered the art of fatigue. She wore it well. Like an old jacket, frayed at the edges and worn down by years of misuse.

She got as far as the coffee pot before she heard a noise. Outside. Voices, muffled by the door she just locked. Normally this wouldn’t be notable. Her neighbors were allowed to talk, after all. But as she stayed completely still, listening, she swore she heard her name.

_Miss Page._

Naturally, her curiosity got the best of her and she went to press her ear against the door in the hopes of catching more of this mysterious conversation that was somehow about her.

 _“She’s such a sweet girl,”_ said the first voice. “ _And so tall! She should have been a model. I told her that when she first moved in. Don’t you think she could be a model?”_

Karen found herself smiling. Mrs. Bartlet. Everything you’d expect in a little old lady. Short, a little hunched, white-haired and bespectacled. Karen never saw her without her pink slippers and pearls. _My second husband bought me these in France_ , she’d said of the pearls. _He died on the toilet, can you believe that? Just like Elvis!_ Mrs. Bartlet paused, then she reached a withered hand up to pat Karen on the cheek. _You’d look so pretty in pearls, dear._

That’s where the conversation ended. Mrs. Bartlet had to go, see. Her stories were on. _General Hospital._

Karen kept listening.

Mrs. Bartlet kept talking.

 _“My,”_ she said. _“You’re very solid, aren’t you? I’ll bet you were a soldier. You look like a soldier. My third husband was a soldier, you know. He fought in Vietnam.”_

Karen’s eyes widened. Her heart slammed a very sudden and very rapid rhythm against her ribcage, so fierce that it was a wonder it hadn’t burst.

She couldn’t tell if she wanted to cry or grab her gun.

Finally, the second voice—the _soldier_ —spoke, and it was all Karen could do to keep from screaming. Or punching a hole through the door.

 _“You got me,”_ he said, using that _tone_ he did whenever he was putting on a front. He never used it with her, but with strangers, there was a certain way he spoke…Lighter, like he was trying to elevate himself above what he did in the shadows.

Mrs. Bartlet sounded happy to have caught him. _“Oh, I knew it! You soldiers, you’ve all got that build. Solid. So solid.”_

Frank laughed. Chuckled, really. Karen felt her stomach lurch at the sound of it. _“Well, uh—”_

 _“Have you and Miss Page been together for long?”_ Mrs. Bartlet always knew how to make things as awkward as possible in a matter of seconds.

_“I, uh—”_

That’s when Karen made the decision to open the door. She plastered on her best smile and stepped out into the hall. Sure enough, there was Frank in his coat and his hat. Mrs. Bartlet stood less than a foot away from him. Her hand was pressed to his broad chest.

The old woman followed Frank’s blank gaze to where Karen stood. The hand on Frank’s chest immediately flew to her pearls.

“Miss Page!” She exclaimed like she wasn’t just copping a feel. “I was just getting to know your, ah… _Gentleman caller_ here, and…”

Before she could think about what she was doing, Karen strolled right over to Frank and pressed her hand against his chest like Mrs. Bartlet had done, smile still plastered. “That’s all right, Mrs. Bartlet. I’m sure Frank doesn’t mind.” She looked at him. “Do you, Frank?”

Frank stared at her, speechless.

Karen counted this as a victory.

Mrs. Bartlet edged with her pink slippers toward her own door. “Well, I should leave you two alone. Don’t stay up too late.” She wagged her finger at Frank. “And you be sure to treat this girl with respect, soldier.”

“I will, ma’am,” Frank said, smiling in spite of his serious tone. His arm was wrapped firmly around Karen’s waist and you can be sure she was aware of every bit of pressure he applied there. “You have a good night.”

Mrs. Bartlet muttered something about her third husband then retreated into her apartment. Hopefully _General Hospital_ was on.

Karen wasted no time in literally dragging Frank inside. She slammed the door, locked it, then rounded on the man she desperately wanted to hate. What was that song? The Rolling Stones? “You Can’t Always Get What You Want?”

No shit.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here, Frank?” She snapped. “And if you say _you were just in the neighborhood,_ I’m going to slap the shit out of you!”

Frank blinked at her, eyes dark underneath the brim of his hat. When he spoke, he spoke only one word. One word that stopped her dead in her pissed-off tracks. Softly. Always softly. “…Karen.”

The gunshot came first.

The blood came second.

A scarlet flower in the middle of Frank’s chest.

Blooming. Blooming.

Bleeding.


End file.
